


never seen a mouth i would kill to kiss

by princessoftheworlds



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mentioned The Doctor/The Doctor's TARDIS, Miscommunication, Pining, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:22:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25683493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessoftheworlds/pseuds/princessoftheworlds
Summary: Ianto drops into Gwen’s desk chair abruptly, its springs squeaking in protest. All this time, he thought that he and Jack were building something, moving away from "just this once" towards "dinner and a movie," but clearly, that was all an illusion, a smoke trick. All this time, Jack was seeing Ianto through the lenses of the Doctor. No, he wasn’t even seeing Ianto; he was just seeing his beloved Doctor. A projection, a simple maneuver with light, or in this case - pinstripes.Jack is an immortal man, a complicated phenomenon in spacetime, and Ianto would have been a fool to think he would have ever been able to draw Jack’s attention alone, he realizes. This is a blessing, really; he’s never going to win over Jack’s heart even if Jack succeeded in winning Ianto’s. This is all Ianto will ever get of Jack Harkness, and Ianto Jones will take what he can get.
Relationships: Jack Harkness/Ianto Jones, Jack Harkness/The Doctor (referenced)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 117





	never seen a mouth i would kill to kiss

**Author's Note:**

> Well...happy birthday to me? Yes, this extreme angst fest is my birthday present to myself. What is wrong with me you may ask? Look, as much as I love happy janto, I also love exploring some of the fucked-up extremes that could emerge from their relationship as an immortal and a mortal James Bond nerd/archivist/Ianto Jones. Look, the man wears many hats. 
> 
> Ahahahhaha, enjoy! And please don't sob too much in the comments?

It first occurs weeks after Jack returns from his trip with the Doctor and reconciles with Ianto, or at least that’s when Ianto first notices it. 

That morning, as Ianto rises from bed and heads to shower, he sets out his suit for the day - grey pinstripes offset by a plum shirt and pale tie, all bought during Jack’s absence and worn rarely so far. He doesn’t necessarily pick it out with the hope of drawing Jack’s attention - not that it’s difficult to do that nowadays, but he can’t deny that the idea warms his chest.

When he walks into the Hub, the cog door rolling aside, the red lights flashing and alarm ringing, Jack’s gaze lands on him, and his eyes darken as they survey Ianto head-to-toe. Ianto himself outwardly blushes, hiding his smug smile. 

An hour later when Ianto brings Jack his first cup of coffee, the other man wraps a firm hand around Ianto’s wrist and tugs him down into his lap for a deep snog that ends up with Jack on his knees, lips wrapped around Ianto’s cock. 

This itself isn’t odd, but the fact that Jack crowds him down in the archives two hours later to be the recipient of a hand job and - _again_ \- pulls him into the pantry to snog passionately. Today, Jack appears to be insatiable and incredibly handsy, possessive even; he doesn’t hide his glare when Gwen teases Ianto about flirting back with the Chinese delivery girl.

“You’ve been very lascivious all day,” remarks Ianto, grunting as Jack’s cock jabs against his prostate. Colorful sparks explode behind his closed eyes. “Anything bring this mood on in particular?”

“It’s the pinstripes,” Jack moans back, one hand braced besides Ianto’s shoulder as he reaches down to fondle Ianto’s weeping cock. He leans down to drop kisses along Ianto’s collarbones. “Makes you look fucking irresistible.”

Ianto neatly tucks this tidbit of knowledge in the back of his mind before being driven thoughtless by Jack’s thrusting.

He experiments again several times over the course of the next few weeks, wearing pinstripes and driving Jack insane with lust. Jack’s eyes always take on this focused look; as he fucks Ianto, as Ianto fucks him, he looks at Ianto like Ianto holds the sun, moon, and stars, like Ianto’s the key to the entire universe. Ianto doesn’t mind that Jack’s gaze always goes a bit distant towards the end as he gets lost in his pleasure and thoughts; no, he finds himself craving more and more of that look, of Jack’s attention. It becomes like a drug to him, and riding on its high is as exhilarating as riding Jack’s cock.

One day, three months later, he’s tidying Gwen’s desk when he comes across a dossier they’d put together during Jack’s absence in an attempt to track him. Chuckling, Ianto lifts the dossier to carry it back to the archives, and a stray sheet slips free, fluttering to the ground. As he picks it up from the cold floor, he turns it over in his hand, and his heart stutters.

It’s a grainy, colored shot of a blurry individual, but enough detail is visible to identify the figure who has haunted some of Ianto’s most vivid nightmares of Canary Wharf, the ones where he wakes up screaming himself hoarse and is comforted softly by Jack. Wild, brown hair, gaunt features, brown eyes widened with a delirious energy, a light shirt with a paisley-patterned tie, and - most importantly - a suit of brown pinstripes.

Ianto drops into Gwen’s desk chair abruptly, its springs squeaking in protest. All this time, he thought that he and Jack were building something, moving away from _just this once_ towards _dinner and a movie_ , but clearly, that was all an illusion, a smoke trick. All this time, Jack was seeing Ianto through the lenses of the Doctor. No, he wasn’t even seeing Ianto; he was just seeing his beloved Doctor. A projection, a simple maneuver with light, or in this case - pinstripes.

Jack is an immortal man, a complicated phenomenon in spacetime, and Ianto would have been a fool to think he would have ever been able to draw Jack’s attention alone, he realizes. This is a blessing, really; he’s never going to win over Jack’s heart even if Jack succeeded in winning Ianto’s. This is all Ianto will ever get of Jack Harkness, and Ianto Jones will take what he can get. 

A week later, Ianto walks into the Hub wearing a variant of brown pinstripes, and he watches as something flickers through Jack’s eyes, something _indecipherable_ . As Ianto ministers to the coffee machine, he’s snatched away and pinned to a wall, snogged mercilessly by Jack who beams before whirlwinding away to his office. Ianto’s left, breathless, _aching_ , in a way Jack’s never affected him before. His heart thuds.

If this is the price he has to pay to stay under the eye and close to the heart of Captain Jack Harkness, Ianto Jones will pay it.

* * *

Still, despite how Ianto feels about it, it isn’t all that bad. He certainly enjoys the attention and praise Jack lavishes on him; it makes him feel more confident and comfortable, a flower straightening under Jack’s sun, to the point where he whips out witty remarks during team debriefs and snarks back and forth with Owen.

He’s shagging Jack on a regular basis, sometimes even more than that, and is even closer to his team in the eighteen months since he first joined. He starts to even put in a bit more effort into the guise.

Ianto leaves his hair slightly untamed and notices how Jack roots his hands there when Ianto kneels down to blow him. He trades the pinstripes - which he’s now wearing more often than not - for a navy suit, and Jack nearly rips the jacket in an effort to strip Ianto naked. He doesn’t stoop as far to wear colored Converses with his suits, both to avoid Owen’s snide comments and for his own personal pride, but he does wear them once or twice when he dresses casually to go out with Jack. Jack always laughs brilliantly when he catches sight of them, but Ianto can’t deny the extra bounce in Jack’s step as they stride besides each other.

But the most reaction from Jack comes after Ianto, who has taken to tracking down all information possible about this regeneration of the Doctor, comes across a grainy shot of the Doctor wearing dark-rimmed, square-framed reading glasses.

It just happens to be that Ianto’s current glasses prescription is almost up, and even though he mostly wears contacts, it wouldn’t hurt to get a new pair of glasses.

That Monday morning, while Jack broods out on a Cardiff rooftop, Owen trickles into the Hub early to find Ianto seated at his desk scanning over papers, stormy blue eyes framed by black square glasses.

“Didn’t know you were farsighted, Jones,” Owen mocks, although his tone is lighter than it usually is.

“I’m nearsighted,” Ianto corrects him, not even glancing up, “as are you. I know you’ve seen my medical file.” He sighs and stands when Owen doesn’t move towards his own desk. “I’ll get you your coffee.”

Tosh comes in as Ianto is handing Owen his coffee. She beams at them. “New specs, Ianto?”

“My contacts ran out,” Ianto offers.

Today, even Gwen is in before Jack; she nods at him as he hands her her coffee. “You should wear your glasses more often,” she tells him. “Makes you look distinguished.”

“More like grandfatherly,” grumbles Ianto.

“ _Distinguished_ ,” Gwen insists.

Finally, Jack bothers to show, greatcoat draped over an arm as he descends dramatically into the Hub via the invisible lift. His eyes light up with a lusty spark when he notices Ianto and his new glasses. “New look?” he teases. “Did you know I’ve got a fondness for spectacles?”

“Yes, sir,” replies Ianto dryly, taking his greatcoat from him, which he swaps for Jack’s coffee, “I purposely was born with a genetic defect that requires me to wear corrective lenses just to give you something to ogle at.”

“You wound me, Ianto.” Jack places his hand on his heart, and with another leer at Ianto, he slips inside his office, leaving Ianto wondering if he was imagining the way Jack’s eyes lingered on him.

Apparently, he was not. Jack spends the entire day, even when Gwen and Owen go on a quick Rift retrieval, staring down at Ianto through the glass walls of his office. In fact, at one point, Ianto glances up from his computer, having been unconsciously chewing on one end of his glasses, to find Jack’s eyes wide and his cheeks faintly pink. 

During lunch, Jack takes every opportunity to brush up against Ianto and cop a feel, even more frequently than usual. 

Eventually, after the Rift has stayed mostly quiet all day, Jack dismisses the rest of the team, motioning for Ianto to stay behind. When the cog door rolls shut behind Tosh, he advances on Ianto predatorily.

“You don’t know what the sight of you in those glasses were doing to me all day,” Jack purrs, gesturing to the prominent bulge in his trousers.

Ianto clears his throat with a quiet cough. “Granted that I could see you the entire time, I think I do.”

With a low growl, Jack lunges forward, and soon, Ianto finds himself bent over Gwen’s desk with Jack’s cock up his arse, his glasses abandoned off to the side. The world around him has become a blurry mess.

“Now, this is a lovely, familiar sight,” says Jack, amusement coloring his voice as he thrusts shallowly into Ianto. “This, I can appreciate.”

“At some point, it should be you bent over this desk,” notes Ianto calmly, clenching down tightly on Jack’s thick length. “Now, do you mind moving a tad more? Usually shagging involves a lot less talking.” 

Jack growls again, spurred by Ianto’s lack of incoherency, and his hips begin to move in a punishing rhythm, enough to draw a long moan from Ianto’s throat.

“You’re not talking anymore,” Jack teases ten minutes later when Ianto’s legs have turned wobbly from the pleasure exploding up his spine. He’s only being held down, braced by Jack. “Clearly, I’m doing something right.” His hips stutter briefly. He leans down to whisper into Ianto’s ear, the rush of air against his sensitive skin causing Ianto to shiver, “You don’t know how good you looked in those glasses. I want to fuck you while you wear them.”

“ _Don’t stop_ ,” gasps Ianto. “ _Fuck_ , pleasepleaseplease. _Fuuuuuck_.” He whines, clutching helplessly at a corner of Gwen’s desk to keep from slipping against the surface from the force of Jack’s merciless thrusts.

They continue like that for what seems like forever, until Ianto’s reduced to a sobbing, needy mess, a live wire of sensation and nerves. With one final strike of Jack’s cock against his poor abused prostate, Ianto spurts his release against the floor of the Hub, crying out Jack’s name. Moments later, Jack comes inside him.

Weak and shaking, Jack’s release trickling down his thighs, Ianto allows himself to be led to Jack’s bunker. He rules his glasses idea to have been a success. 

And when Jack later insists on fucking Ianto in his bunker while he wears the glasses, Ianto doesn’t refuse. He never does, when it comes to Jack.

* * *

But as with all things in Ianto Jones’s life, this _thing_ with Jack, not solely the Doctor-inspired premise it is based on but rather the entire thing, begins to crumble, and it starts with Ianto noticing minor details.

Jack has a charismatic knack for telling stories, and on certain slow days in the Hub, he will fill their lunch hour, and often other hours, with relaying adventures from his years in space and his immortal life before becoming the leader of Torchwood Three. As expected with Jack, those stories are always mostly of his sexual exploits and escapades, some of which feature John Hart and the mysterious Time Agency, but frequently, he has genuine, awe-inspiring insights into alien lives and cultures that have Gwen, Tosh, Owen, and Ianto hanging on to his every word. 

(There are times when Ianto wonders that in one, five, ten, or even fifty years from now, Jack will be telling future generations of Torchwood stories about _him_ : “I knew this one guy, back in the early twenty-first century. Made an incredible cup of coffee, looked damned good in a suit, excellent shag. I think his name was....Ianto?”)

Lately, however, Jack’s stories have changed; they have become less about _him_ and more about...well...

“So we were running, right? And running and running and running,” booms Jack once during lunch. His hands are flying in all directions, gesticulating wildly as he narrates, and Ianto has to duck to avoid being smacked in the face by Jack’s chopsticks. He straightens his suit, feeling a bit like a disgruntled pelican. “Then the Doctor turns to Rose and says,” - he affects a rather good Northern accent - “ _how many times have I told you to not approach royalty without their permission_?” He jabs his chopstick into the air, flinging up pieces of fried rice and egg. “Apparently, Rose thought the princess of Flor’va was a scarf!” He beams as Tosh, Owen, and Gwen break into laughter. 

Ianto swallows down his bite of dumpling along with the lump in his throat, the same lump that forms every time these last few weeks when Jack has broken into a story about a trip with the Doctor to Poosh or walking the frozen waves of Women Wept. 

He doesn’t know how the others haven’t noticed; Tosh and Gwen seem to be convinced that Jack and Ianto are becoming an item.

In fact, Gwen comes up to him not even a few days later while he’s organizing Owen’s medical equipment in the autopsy bay. 

“Jack’s been looking particularly _smug_ nowadays,” she comments, a touch of amusement in her words to balance out the slight jealousy. 

“Whatever do you mean, Gwen?” asks Ianto, feigning obviousness. He continues lining up Owen’s disinfected scalpels in their drawer.

Gwen waggles her eyebrows teasingly, creeping closer. “You know what I mean. He’s been hanging about you a lot more, all handsy and possessive like he can’t get enough of you.” She nudges him gently. Her words are clearly said in jest, but she doesn’t notice how stiff Ianto’s become. “You boys must be doing something right in the bedroom, at least more than usual. He’s been looking a lot lighter and happier recently, as have you.”

The lump in Ianto’s throat returns, accompanied by a quiet roaring in his ears that drowns out Gwen’s last remarks. 

Jack’s been happier recently, been feeling more satisfied and possessive, which Gwen has observed, but that’s not Ianto’s doing. Every time he fucks Ianto, Jack’s probably thinking about the Doctor, fucking him, loving him, being loved back. Every time Ianto’s on his knees, his mouth full of Jack’s cock, Jack looks down and probably sees the Doctor.

It’s the Doctor who is making Jack feel this way, not Ianto. Ianto’s still invisible, still disregarded, just as he’s always been. He may share Jack’s bed, but he doesn’t share Jack’s heart or mind. 

He can feel his shoulders slump slightly, but he straightens his spine, unwilling to allow Gwen to see him falter. He composes himself, schools his face into passive nonchalance. “If that’s what you want to think, Gwen,” he tells her, smirking. “For all you know, it could be the new coffee beans I started using last week that’ve put Jack in a better mood.” He checks the watch on his wrist. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe it’s time to feed Myfanwy.” 

Ianto leaves Gwen gaping without a second glance, but his mind is already preoccupied.

Going along with Jack’s Doctor fetish, indulging him, was a mistake; Ianto knows that now. But Ianto also knows that the moment he drops the act, he’ll lose the tiny part of Jack that he’s fought hard to get. So it’s either lose himself and hold tight the only pieces of Jack Harkness he’ll ever get or lose Jack entirely, and Ianto knows which choice he’ll make.

* * *

There is one particular incident where after a long, arduous mission fending off the third attempted alien invasion of the week, Jack insists on taking the entire team out for dinner. Well, until Ianto reminds him that it’s half-past noon since they spent all night and all the early morning hours battling Rihoons. Then Jack settles on lunch.

He takes the team to a waterfront restaurant they always avoid, and Ianto nods courteously to the waitress whose eyes widen as she takes them in - bedraggled, bleeding wounds patched over, Toshiko limping, Gwen favoring her right shoulder.

A declarative _Torchwood_ from Jack gets them seats in a private corner overlooking the bay and a steely-eyed waiter whose nerve even Ianto has to admire; he doesn’t flinch as Owen curses up a blue streak or when Gwen sets her gun down next to her plate.

It’s a nice place, which is why Torchwood usually avoids it, and which also gets Ianto wondering why Jack brought them here. The service is efficient; they receive their order not even twenty minutes later, and they dive into their food. Ianto is the only one who actually uses his table manners; Owen is so tired he begins to eat his pasta with a spoon. That, or he’s just being Owen.

“You know,” Jack begins around a mouthful of sandwich, “it’s been almost a lifetime since I’ve been here.” He attempts a charming smile that is only slightly droopy. “Least it feels that way.” He glances around distractedly before his eyes stray over his team; he stares at them like he’s not really seeing _them_ but is rather accompanied by someone else from his memories.

Ianto bets it was an actual lifetime. Beside him, Tosh has begun to tear her straw wrapper into shreds.

Jack’s brow furrows in concentration. “It was around the time of the Slitheen mayor.”

Something slides into place in the back of Ianto’s mind, something from his research during Jack’s absence, and he sluggishly recalls a picture of a happier, more boyish Jack in the ugliest combination of a tan bomber jacket and trousers with a blue t-shirt that Ianto had ever seen. Jack had been accompanied by a pretty blond girl, a black man, and a broody man with large ears wearing a leather trench. 

The Doctor. The Doctor and Rose, presumably. And they’d been in Cardiff in 2006 when Margaret Blaine, the mayor who Torchwood knew to be a Slitheen in disguise, had disappeared. And they had come here, to this restaurant.

Bitterness floods Ianto’s throat, burning like bile. _If Jack misses the Doctor so much_ , he thinks, _why didn’t he just stay with him_? Jack had no need to feed Ianto that lie about how he came back for him; he clearly hadn’t. Ianto’s seen the CCTV of him and Gwen in the cells. And months later, they still haven’t gone on that date. Ianto doesn’t think they ever will.

He uses the fork to pick disinterestedly at his own food. He’s mindlessly eaten half the salmon, but the unnecessarily large pile of green beans and carrots still remain.

Jack nudges him gently with his elbow. “Why aren’t you eating?”

Startled, Ianto turns to glance at him, his surprised expression quickly smoothing out, but he knows it’s been noticed when Jack’s eyes narrow. “I don’t particularly have an appetite right now. I’m just so bloody tired.” 

The other man smiles softly, setting Ianto’s heart aflutter and further frazzling his mind. “Make sure Owen checks you out once in the Hub before you go home, just to be sure.”

For once, there is no invitation for his bed, just a _genuine_ moment, and Ianto almost can trick himself into thinking Jack actually _cares_. Almost.

Then Jack’s lips crook into their familiar smirk. “Did I ever tell you guys about the time the Doctor, Rose, and I…?” 

“Oh, not again, Harkness,” Owen complains, resting his head on the table with a tired groan. “I can’t handle another one of your _stories_ right now.

_Yeah_ , Ianto decides as Jack’s responding chuckle sends involuntary jolts of warmth through him, _Jack should have just stayed with the Doctor_.

* * *

Which is why Ianto is quite, _quite_ surprised when not even a week later, Jack comes up to him when he’s cleaning the Hub late one night. His expression is oddly hesitant and un-Jack-like as he wrings his hands together, watching Ianto sweep around Tosh’s desk. (For a brilliant genius, she is oddly messy with her chocolate wrappers.)

“Yes?” Ianto asks finally, patience running out. He leans the broom against Tosh’s chair and turns to face Jack, arms crossed over his chest. He notes, with just a touch of satisfaction, that Jack’s eyes follow the flexing of his muscles. 

“What are you doing this Friday night?” Jack questions, the lightness in his voice obviously forced.

Ianto hums. “Chasing Weevils if I’m unlucky, watching James Bond if I’m lucky.”

“Well,” Jack begins, wobbling on his heels like a child, arms gathered behind his back, “Tosh has promised that the Rift will be staying quiet, so what would you say to ditching that James Bond to come to Turmeric with me instead?” He pauses briefly. “For that dinner and a movie I owe you…”

Ianto’s heart lodges in his throat. It’s been _months_ since Jack first asked him, and he honestly had thought Jack had forgotten about it; Jack certainly hadn’t brought it up since. He doesn’t know how to respond.

Clearly, Ianto’s stayed silent too long, because Jack takes a step back, a shadow passing over his face. “Um, it’s alright if you no longer want to-”

“Yes, yes,” he says hastily before he even realizes he’s spoken. “Friday night is fine.”

The sun couldn’t have shone as bright as Jack’s smile, and Ianto rues his body for its automatic response as he leans slightly closer to Jack. “I’ll make our reservations,” announces Jack, bouncing slightly. His smile somehow only seems to grow. “I’ll pick you up.”

Then he walks away, leaving Ianto frazzled.

Friday night comes, and Ianto’s waiting by his front door in a new suit, sans pinstripes; he won’t have the Doctor interfering here. He has half a mind that Jack’s not even going to show, but then, there’s a quiet knock on the door. Quickly, he whips it open to find Jack wearing his familiar blue-shirt-grey-slacks-red-braces combination, the greatcoat draped over his arm.

Jack holds out a bouquet of roses to him. “For you!”

“ _Thank you_?” responds a bewildered Ianto; he’s never been given roses before. He quickly retreats inside his flat to place the flowers in a rather ugly vase that Lisa had once bought that somehow survived the hasty move to Cardiff. Then he double-checks that his keys and wallet are in his coat pocket before locking the door behind him. He sets off down the hall, and Jack hurries to catch up.

When they emerge outside, the door to Ianto’s building swinging shut behind them, the winter air hits Ianto’s skin like a slap from a cold hand, and he shivers, pulling his coat tighter. Noticing, Jack steps closer, until their shoulders nearly brush and Ianto can feel the body heat radiating off the other man. 

“Where’s the SUV?” Ianto asks incredulously; the trademark black SUV is nowhere in sight, not parked in its regular spot on the street next to Ianto’s Audi.

“Oh, no,” Jack replies, chuckling. “We’re walking, Mr. Jones.” When Ianto raises an eyebrow at him, he beams.

Turmeric is a ten-minute walk from his flat, making it a fifteen-minute walk from the Hub, so it feels like only moments before they arrive outside the bayside restaurant, its bright yellow signage reflecting in the puddles of rainwater gathered over the cobblestone. 

Jack strolls right on inside. “A reservation for Harkness?”

“Of course, sir,” their waitress responds with, smiling and blushing under the spotlight of Jack’s charm. “Right this way.” With two menus bundled under her arm, she leads them to a plush booth in a rather secluded corner deep inside the restaurant. “Please take a moment to glance through the menu. I will be back in a moment to take your orders.”

Slipping his coat off, Ianto folds it and stacks it neatly in a corner of the booth as he slides inside. In contrast, Jack stuffs his greatcoat in the opposing corner until a pointed glance and cough from Ianto has him rolling his eyes and smoothing it over. Ianto then takes the opportunity to glance around.

The restaurant is obviously classy, well-lit with flattering yellow crystal chandeliers and Indian-inspired art pieces hanging on the richly-painted walls, and has no prices on the menu as Ianto soon observes. Faint, soothing symphonic music plays in the background, which strangely suits the ambience more than Ianto would have expected.

“Have you been here before?” he asks Jack curiously.

The other man shakes his head. “I’ve passed it several times but never stepped inside. Gwen was talking about her date with Rhys here a few nights ago, so I thought, _why the hell not_ ?” While Ianto takes a few minutes to process that Jack ultimately listened to dating advice from _Gwen_ of all people, Jack opens up the menu. “What are you ordering? I’m thinking lamb korma and naan, but if you’re not feeling up to spice tonight, we can share a butter chicken instead.” 

This might be the longest Ianto’s ever gone without hearing Jack make a sexual innuendo, and it feels...unnatural. It almost feels like this truly is a date with Jack.

Jack looks up to see Ianto’s wide eyes and pursed mouth. “You alright, Ianto?”

“Splendid,” Ianto chokes back.

“I just don’t want you feeling too unwell for tonight’s other _activities_ ,” Jack continues, waggling his eyebrows.

Ianto’s shoulders slump as he sighs. Balance has been returned to the world. “Lamb korma should be fine.”

Their waitress returns, and Jack orders the lamb korma, a basket of naan, and the restaurant’s recommended bottle of wine.

“How’s work?” Jack then asks.

Ianto rolls his eyes. “Jack, you see me every day. You always know what I’m doing.”

“Okay, well, what have you been doing at home? In your time off?” Before Ianto can interject, Jack continues, “In the time you’re not spending at the Hub with me or with me in your flat, that is.”

“As if I get enough time for that,” retorts Ianto, and Jack chuckles. He sighs again. “Sleeping mostly. I snuck in the start of a James Bondathon, but I’m only up to _Goldfinger_.”

“You know,” Jack begins contemplatively, “you might be the most James Bond-obsessed individual in the universe I’ve ever met.” When Ianto glares: “There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s just…” He begins to count off on his fingers. “You wear suits, you have incredible one liners, and you’re essentially saving the world every day…”

“Not every day,” Ianto insists. “And that’s not the same thing…”

Their conversation continues like that as their waitress brings their food. They joke and tease and flirt with each other. Jack is a perfect gentleman, at least for Jack; he tells his stories, but they are limited on their crudeness and sexual exploits. In fact, there’s not a single mention of the Doctor at all. It’s so wonderful, it feels like a dream.

Ianto’s two glasses of wine in, and Jack’s starting on his third when the waitress clears their plates. They order a sampler platter of Indian desserts, and Jack insists on feeding Ianto a spoonful of rasmalai - cheese curds soaked in spice-infused milk. Ianto blushes and ducks his head after Jack uses his napkin to wipe traces of the milk from his lips. It feels like something a couple would, which they are _not_ , and leaves Ianto’s poor heart in a confused flutter and sets his insides squirming with nerves.

“You two make a lovely couple,” the waitress tells Ianto as he slips out the restaurant. Jack is strolling blithely ahead.

“...we’re not,” says Ianto weakly, and the waitress gives him a disbelieving stare to rival his own. 

“That was delicious,” Jack comments when Ianto finally catches up to him. “Gwen has good taste.” Then he tilts his head consideringly. “Actually, _I_ have good taste.” And he glances pointedly at Ianto.

This is all too much for Ianto’s traitorous mind. _If he really had good taste_ , it whispers to him, _he wouldn’t have run away, wouldn’t have left you behind for the Doctor. After all, isn’t that who he really wants, who you’re pretending to be_?

Ianto swallows down the sudden lump in his throat. “Where to next?”

“The Hub.”

“The Hub?” 

“Trust me,” Jack replies, bouncing slightly on his heels again as they stride across the Plass. He seems to have a lot of pent-up nervous energy, which is very much unlike him. “It’s a _great surprise_.”

“Because saying that never backfired on anyone.” Ianto snorts.

Jack fixes him with a stern look. “Don’t tempt fate.” They descend into the Hub via the invisible lift, Jack almost leaning into Ianto’s side, and Jack leads him into his office before whirling around. “Ta da! Here’s our movie.”

Ianto gapes at the vividly-colored hologram flickering in midair, projected from the small cube placed on Jack’s desk. “Is that Turflan tech?”

“Yup!” Jack looks smug.

“How did you-?”

“Before I left.”

“What are we watching?” And Jack rattles off the name of a recent trashy sci-fi movie, leading Ianto to groan. “Really? As if your real life wasn’t enough, you want to extend aliens to even your entertainment.”

“It’s not like we’ll be paying much attention to it,” Jack notes, his eyes flickering between the bulges in both their trousers. It’s true; Ianto’s been half-hard since Jack first handed him that bouquet of roses, his fingers brushing against Ianto’s bare inner wrist.

They settle down on the blanket Jack’s thoughtfully set down on the cold cement floor, their backs to Jack’s desk, and Jack queues up the movie, which begins with a poorly-animated explosion in the dark void of space that is likely some studio out in Hollywood.

By the time the lead actress begins to monologue about the glories of humanity, her polyester uniform unflattering on her svelte figure, Jack’s hand has slipped to the crook of Ianto’s knee, and Ianto is having a hard time keeping his gaze on the movie. 

When the next scene switches to a prop spaceship hurtling towards a red planet, the color fading from the darkness of Jack’s office, both of them are suddenly surging forward, their lips descending with furious passion. Ianto’s fingers find a grip in Jack’s hair while Jack’s hands creep under his shirt, dancing across Ianto’s bare skin as they snog. 

They part, breathing heavily, and Ianto traces his tongue over his lips. In the faint light of the projector, he can see Jack’s eyes darken. Jack leans in to nip Ianto’s lip, which leads to them kissing again. Shirts are unbuttoned, trousers unzipped, and Jack slides a suddenly-slick hand towards Ianto’s cock but then falters half-way there. Ianto groans.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Jack says, brow creasing. “We have to do this right.”

“ _No_ ,” Ianto replies, “you have to do _me_.” 

Jack inhales sharply. “Bed?”

“Bed,” Ianto agrees, and they scramble down towards Jack’s bunker.

* * *

“Hurry up, you bastard,” Ianto whines, sounding completely bratty and not caring. His muscles ache from the exertion of holding his knees against his chest for so long. “ _Put your cock in me_!”

“Patience is a virtue,” Jack retorts, slowly stroking his weeping cock. The sight of it, long, hard, and thick, causes Ianto’s own to ache painfully. Jack rubs a thumb over his slit, sighing, eyes fluttering shut in bliss. 

Ianto loses his patience. Dropping his legs back down to the bed, he latches on to Jack’s wrist, pulling hard, and uses the momentum to reverse their positions. Jack lands on his back on the mattress, all the breath audibly _whooshing_ out of his lungs from the sudden collison, and Ianto straddles him. He smirks down at Jack. “Now, this is preferable.”

“No,” Jack corrects, gazing up at Ianto with such awe that he shivers, “this is _a goddamn fantasy_.”

He’s grateful for the shadowy lamps in Jack’s bunker that mask the brightness of his blush at Jack’s words. “Shuddup.” Carefully, he reaches behind him to firmly grasp Jack’s cock and strokes towards the head a few times, just like Jack had been. Jack bucks into his grip, hissing, but Ianto doesn’t falter. Finally, he lifts his hips enough and sinks down on Jack’s cock.

Jack hisses again, much more loudly this time. “ _Fuck_.”

“That’s what you weren’t doing.” Ianto clenches down as _hard_ as he can on Jack’s cock. Jack’s lovely responding groan of pleasure is music to his ears, but Ianto is too preoccupied with the sensation of being _full_ , his arse grinding down slightly against Jack’s crotch. “You feel incredible inside me.”

“Are you ever going to move?” Jack demands, eyes narrowing.

“Patience is a virtue,” Ianto parrots back, smiling smugly. Then he lifts his hips again, rising on his knees until only the tip of Jack’s cock remains wedged inside him. He locks eyes with Jack as he drops back down again, impaling himself completely. Both men moan loudly, and Jack tosses his head back, burying his face in the pillows as Ianto begins an easy rhythm that gradually picks up in pace. He shifts forward, likely only frustrating Jack further, and bright sparks explode behind his eyes as Jack’s cock finally strikes his prostate. Ianto _keens_ at the incredible sensation.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ .” Jack is watching Ianto move on his cock now, eyes still bright and awed. “You always look gorgeous on top of me, riding my cock.” Something about the way he says it almost sounds _reverent_ , but it can’t be...it’s only Ianto here.

At Jack’s words, Ianto almost falters in his movements but continues to move with a fluid grace. He rides Jack’s cock swiftly, arching his back to take in more of Jack. Something about the way Jack looks at him, their eyes locked onto each other’s, is getting to him; he longs to switch positions, to be the one flat on his back, able to bury his face in the pillows. Instead, he cannot glance away from Jack and the way his eyes widen and his mouth stretches with pleasure as he moans. Jack has always been an addictive sight for Ianto’s eyes to feast upon, but he never looks more beautiful than during sex, be it him fucking Ianto or Ianto fucking him.

“Hey, you lost in thought up there?” teases Jack, and before Ianto knows it, he’s been flipped over, Jack likely taking revenge for earlier. He squirms around Jack’s cock as Jack begins to fuck him mercilessly, drawing out whines, whimpers, and keens from Ianto. 

Ianto gazes up helplessly at Jack’s wicked smirk which gradually softens into a more almost _heartbreaking_ expression. The moment feels _charged_ , different from their usual fucking, and Jack’s thrusts become desperate as they both near the precipices of their orgasms. 

“ _Harder_ ,” Ianto demands, slinging an arm around Jack’s neck to draw him closer. “Harder, Jack. _Harder_.” He captures Jack’s lips, passionately snogging the other man. Hands roam each other’s bodies, ghosting over sensitive skin and pinching nipples. Jack moans into Ianto’s mouth before they break apart. Ianto pants against Jack’s sweat-slick skin. “You fuck me so well, Jack.”

“Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck,” Jack gasps, lips pressed to the spot beneath Ianto’s ear that he knows drives Ianto mad with lust and desire. He sucks a love bite there, and Ianto whimpers again, toes curling in pleasure. “Fuck. You feel so hot and tight around me. _Fuck_! The sounds you make are enough to make my cock hard any day.”

Ianto wraps his legs around Jack’s back, pulling him in more tightly and holding him there. “Jack, _Jack_ ,” he moans, body quivering with pleasure. He wriggles a hand between their heated skin, struggling to grasp his cock, but he succeeds, tugging in firm strokes and fondling his balls, trailing fingers over where Jack’s buried deep inside him. He shivers.

“I’m coming,” Jack cries, his thrusts faltering. His eyes squeeze shut. He tosses his head back as he comes, flooding Ianto’s insides with his warm release. “Ah, fuck, _Doctor_.”

Cold horror washes over Ianto. Instantly, his cock goes soft, and he shoves a bewildered Jack away, sitting up. He buries his head in his hands as he struggles to gain control over his breathing. 

Cautiously, Jack drops a hand onto his shoulder only to have it swiftly knocked away. “Ianto? What’s wrong?” He sighs. “I didn’t mean to...it just slipped out.”

Ianto glances up at him, his eyes narrowed. “ _You didn’t mean to_ ,” he repeats, voice cold to hide how much he _aches_. Fuck. It feels like someone’s taken an ice pick to his chest and jaggedly carved out his heart. He only wanted to bring Jack closer to him...he should have known… He inhales sharply. “You never mean to, Jack, do you?”

“Look, it was an accident,” Jack replies, hands gesturing helplessly. The few inches between them on the bed seems like miles. “I didn’t mean to...look, the Doctor’s been on my mind a lot recently.” He rubs his brow in frustration, expression downcast. “None of this should have happened. I just wanted you to have a nice night; you’ve been so _miserable_ lately.”

“The Doctor’s on your mind,” Ianto echoes slowly, almost like he’s attempting to process Jack’s words, “while you’re balls-deep inside me?” He doesn’t know what he expected really; he’d always known that he served as a replacement for the Doctor in Jack’s life, and in Jack’s bed specifically, but to have it confirmed so blatantly hurts more than he could have ever _imagined_. 

“It’s not like it’s my fault entirely,” Jack says, a defensive edge creeping into his tone, “what, with you striding about the Hub in those pinstriped suits of yours and with _those reading glasses_.” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively, then frowns as Ianto stiffens. “Please, you can’t pretend that it hasn’t been entirely for my benefit.”

For a moment, Ianto can do nothing but stare at Jack, lips parted, his insides turning to molten steel. All his thoughts remain half-formed and scattered through his mind. Finally: “ _You’ve known all along what I was doing_?”

“Yeah.” Jack shrugs, _like it’s no big deal_ . “I thought it was odd at first, you trying to roleplay the Doctor, but who am I to judge sexual proclivities?” He attempts a salacious smirk, but now, in the shadowy darkness of his bunker, with _this tension_ between them, it appears more strangled. “I went along with it, because I wanted to indulge you. _I thought you liked it_.”

“You thought I liked it?” The tiniest bit of hope left in Ianto dies a brutal death. “I did it, because I thought it was the only way to keep your attention, to make you care!” He’s shouting now, standing, streams of Jack’s release trickling down his bare legs. “I’ve been chipping away at myself, bit by bit, suffocating in the Doctor, all in the hopes of getting even the _tiniest bit_ of the immortal Jack Harkness, and _you thought I liked it_!”

Jack’s expression has shuttered. He too is standing, on the opposite side of the bed from Ianto, arms folded across his broad chest. “Wait, that’s not f-”

“You look at me, Jack,” Ianto begins coldly. “You look at me, Jack, but you never really _see_ me. You only see what you want to see; you only see the Doctor.” It’s not an accusation; it’s stated as fact, as simple truth. “You don’t _know_ me, Jack; you don’t know _anything_ about me.” 

Ianto’s words hang between them, like shards of warped glass. For a moment, they could be standing in the center of the Hub, not down in Jack’s bunker, Ianto on his knees, Jack’s Webley pressed to his forehead.

_Like you care. I clear up your shit. No questions asked and that's the way you like it. When did you last ask me anything about my life?_

“You’re Ianto Jones,” Jack shouts back, fists clenched by his side as he loses control of his temper. His nostrils flare unattractively in his rage. “You keep everything close to your chest. You’re not exactly the easiest person to get to know!”

“You never tried!” yells Ianto back. “You haven’t even _made an effort_ to understand who I am beyond Torchwood. You took _months_ to take me on that date you promised, and half the time you were making cow eyes at Gwen, who, may I remind you, is getting married soon.”

“Don’t bring Gwen into this,” Jack snarls. He looks half-a-moment away from lunging across the bed and strangling Ianto.

“Why shouldn’t I?” Ianto roars. “You never waste an opportunity to ask her about her life with Rhys. In fact, you cared more about her leaving Torchwood than the fact that I had nearly been shot point-blank in the head!”

Now, Jack has gone pale, shaking his head furiously. His eyes are glassy. “Don’t,” he whispers desperately. “ _Ianto_ , _no_ . _I do care_ …”

The fight has drained out of Ianto. He inhales sharply and turns his back to Jack to pull his clothes on quickly. When he’s no longer exposed, he dares to face the other man, who looks distraught. “I share your life and your bed but not your heart, never your heart,” he tells Jack, “and I don’t think I can cope with that anymore.” 

In the wake of Jack’s continued silence, Ianto reaches for the ladder and climbs his way out of the bunker, leaving the remains of his stupid hopes for _something_ \- _anything_ \- with Jack behind. 

* * *

After the shitshow that was his date with Ianto, Jack stays out all night on the tallest Cardiff rooftop he finds and doesn’t venture inside the Hub until noon the next day, lucky that it was a quiet day for the Rift. By now, the rest of the team is already assembled on the main level, spread out across their various desks, chatting and working.

“Where have you been, Jack?” Gwen asks as he enters through the cog door. Ianto doesn’t even glance up.

“Out,” Jack replies, striding straight past her to his office. “Thought I’d watch the sunset.” She doesn’t bother mentioning that the sunset was _hours_ ago. “Ianto, can I see you in my office now?”

“I’m busy working,” Ianto bites back, eyes not lifting from the paperwork he’s filling out, voice the politest Jack’s ever heard it. “I have to get these files to UNIT by the end of the day. Your coffee’s on your desk, Captain.”

By Owen’s raised eyebrow, Gwen’s widened eyes, and Tosh’s curious stare, they definitely notice when Jack flinches at Ianto’s use of his title. Jack sighs, knowing he’ll be getting questions for the rest of the days, so he shuts the door to his office.

Thankfully, his coffee is resting on the corner of his desk, just as Ianto said, and even though it’s likely gone cold by now, Jack will never pass up a chance for a taste of Ianto’s strong brew. He reaches for his blue-striped mug, cradles it in his hands, takes a sip, and nearly spits it out. It’s instant coffee, and that’s how Jack realizes just how much he fucked up last night; Ianto despises instant coffee, spent months lecturing Gwen about why he hates it so when he caught her drinking it, and now, he’s willingly serving it to Jack. 

The thing is, Jack knows he was in the wrong, to have strung Ianto along for the last few months, to have not _talked_ to him, to have _assumed_ things. 

But that’s the problem. Jack is an arse when it comes to relationships; that’s what he’s heard from John, from all his other partners, even from his wife and from Lucia. He’ll fall in love easily when he meets the right partner, but he never gives them his _everything_. He can’t; he doesn’t think he’ll survive being able to rebuild himself when he loses them, whether to death or whether they walk away.

Yet Ianto Jones is the right kind of partner, and for the first time in a while, Jack fought his instincts to stay distanced, to stay cold and lofty. He tried by asking Ianto out on a date, but old instincts die hard. It took them _months_ to actually go on that date, which Jack ruined by opening his fucking mouth and calling out the wrong name.

Jack isn’t in love with the Doctor anymore; he can’t be, not after the Doctor called him “wrong” and “an impossible thing.” He loves the Doctor, _admires_ him, sure, but isn’t in love with him anymore, yet he clings to those memories of some of the best times of his life, and before he knows it, they start to bleed into what he has with Ianto. 

And now Jack might have ruined something new with an incredible man but doesn’t know how to apologize since Ianto _won’t even look at him_.

Ianto continues to freeze Jack out for the rest of the week, leaving him strung out and frustrated enough to develop a temper of his own. He knocks horns with Gwen, snaps at Owen, and walks away from Tosh mid-conversation enough that she takes to ducking out of the room when he enters. Because of one mistake Jack made, the Hub has become a warzone. 

Eventually, several, several days later, Jack is out on a Weevil hunt with Owen of all people since Ianto has refused to accompany him anywhere. Despite the company, Jack is incredibly grateful for the opportunity to take out his bad temperament in a tussle with a Weevil, or at least he is until Owen decides to speak.

“Jonesy no longer putting out, is he?” Owen chuckles as he peers into an alley, gun raised. “Is the fact that you have to wank yourself to completion just like the rest of us what’s got you so down?”

“Fuck you, Owen,” Jack growls back and tries to inch away, but Owen turns to trap him in his incredulous gaze.

“What did you do to Ianto, mate?” he asks, and the question, the concern, in his voice is genuine. “He’s been sulking all week, won’t talk to Tosh or Gwen and definitely not to me. And then there’s you, biting off people’s heads if they dare ask you a question.”

“Why do you even care, Owen?” Jack says, grinding to a brief halt, Webley still secure in his grip. “You hate Ianto.”

“See, Harkness,” Owen tells him, “I really don’t. He may be a wanker, but we grew close while you were gone; we had to. He’s like my brother. An annoying little brother but still like my brother. So I do care, just like I care about Gwen, about Tosh, and even about you.”

Jack tries not to scowl. He had noticed that the team had been a lot close-knit, a lot friendlier, since before, with too many of their own inside jokes that he never got. He had noticed the coffee dates Tosh and Ianto had, the pub nights with Owen and Ianto, the trivia nights and shopping trips the girls went on, and had never minded the lack of invites, not when he had Ianto all to himself most nights.

But Owen seems to genuinely want to help despite his brusque manner of going about it. 

“I said the wrong name in bed,” mumbles Jack.

“What?” Owen calls, cupping a hand to his ear. “I didn’t hear you.”

“ _I said the wrong name in bed_ ,” Jack snaps, frowning. “Happy?”

Owen whistles, low and slow, before managing to smother his chuckles. “Well, that’s not a problem I ever thought you would have.” 

Slowly, the story spills out as they venture down the rest of the block, searching for the Weevil supposedly around the neighborhood, and Owen’s eyebrows inch higher and higher.

“So now he won’t even talk to me,” Jack complains finally when he finishes narrating. “What am I supposed to do?”

“You fucked up, Jack,” Owen tells him, and Jack inhales sharply, grip tightening around his gun. “You fucked up, and luckily, you’re talking to the one man who has done what you did and survived to tell the tale. Katie,” - here, there is a short flicker of sadness in Owen’s eyes at her name - “was a saint to ever let me back into our flat. Here’s what you do.” When Jack looks over hopefully at him: “You grovel.”

“No,” Jack protests. “I will not be grovelling.”

“If you ever want Ianto to ever look at you again, you need to get on your knees and grovel,” reiterates Owen. “Flowers, chocolates, expensive coffee.” He shrugs, and Jack is almost grateful when there’s a low howl from the last alley they’re at. He and Owen exchange glances before darting inside, guns raised.

* * *

The first day, Jack starts small.

Ianto walks into the tourist office and finds the reception desk covered in over a dozen vases containing vivid red rose bouquets, Jack watching hopefully over the CCTV cameras. Ianto scowls, walks to one end of the office to pick up the rubbish bin, and makes direct eye contact with the cameras as he slowly pushes one bouquet after another into the bin like a belligerent cat.

Jack isn’t dissuaded and simply tries again, with a dark chocolate cake iced with the words _I’m sorry, Ianto. Can we talk_? Thankfully, Ianto finds the cake on his desk with the full team there to watch him carry it off.

“Where are you taking that cake, Ianto?” Gwen asks.

“Chocolate doesn’t appear with me anymore,” Ianto lies, smiling. “I’m going to feed this cake to Myfanwy.” He heads past Owen in the autopsy bay whose rolled eyes are caught by no one but Jack.

The next day, the expensive silk blue tie is dropped into a drawer of Ianto’s desk and forgotten about. The bag of rare coffee beans that Jack had to call in a favor with an old friend to get his hands on is tucked under the kitchen sink. Ianto’s favorite pastries are ignored, devoured completely by Tosh, Gwen, and Owen.

Heart sinking, Jack tries smaller gestures.

Ianto sits on his desk chair and finds it no longer squeaks and is in fact brand-new. The Hub is always clean when Ianto arrives in the mornings, the archives perfectly organized. Myfanwy is always fed and greets Ianto with a happy squawk. The leaky faucet in one of the sinks in the autopsy bay no longer drips, and someone’s picked up all the dry cleaning. 

* * *

By the end of the second week, Jack may be thoroughly exhausted, but Ianto has never had a freer schedule; at one point, he spends a single afternoon just reading through past Torchwood cases and files he finds interesting, none of which include Jack’s name or a mention of the Doctor. In fact, he’s hidden all his pinstriped suits in the back of his closet and requested for the lenses to be changed on his old glasses because he seems to have misplaced the new ones. 

Despite this, Ianto feels slightly unbalanced; he hasn't seen the heads or tails of Jack in days, almost like the other man is purposely making himself elusive. It’s frustrating, especially since some of his original ire towards Jack has dissolved. Neither of them communicated with each other when they should have, and Ianto can’t entirely blame Jack for that, no matter how much he hurt or may still be hurting.

Ianto finally throws down the towel and hunts Jack down one day after pretending to have left with Owen, Tosh, and Gwen. He finds Jack in the kitchenette, making himself a sandwich, and tries not to wince at the mess Jack’s making with the bread and other ingredients everywhere.

“Jack,” Ianto says quietly and watches the other man stiffen and turn slowly to face him.

“Ianto.” Jack nods politely, sandwich in hand. He’s not holding a plate, and crumbs are falling to the ground. When he follows Ianto’s meaningful stare, he coughs and reaches back to leave his sandwich on a plate on the counter.

“We should talk,” Ianto tells him, and Jack nods again.

“Right, if this is about the desk chair,” he begins, “I haven’t kept the receipt, so I don’t think you can return it, but you could always trade it to Owen. He’s been complaining about the stuck wheel on his.”

Ianto knows; it was next on his list to fix after the faucet, but someone else got to that first. “This isn’t about the chair, Jack,” he says. “This is about us.”

Jack snorts. “There isn’t an _us_.” He seemingly doesn’t notice how Ianto flinches. “You’ve made that more than abundantly clear.”

“I don’t appreciate how you treated me, Jack,” Ianto states, cutting off Jack’s grumbling. “You came back from the dead after three days and kissed me like it _meant something_ . Then you disappeared for three months and came back and asked me on a date you waited months to take me on. You try to treat me like a lover, but you also don’t _see_ me, don’t even try to _know_ me. It’s enough to give a man whiplash.” He inhales sharply. “ _I’m not a toy, Jack._ ” And he knows that Jack too can hear how weak his voice has gone here. “This isn’t even about the Doctor, not really.”

“I know that,” Jack replies quietly, “and I’m sorry. I haven’t treated you well, Ianto; in fact, I’ve neglected you not only as a lover and an employee but as a friend.” He rubs a hand over his brow. “The thing is, while I was gone, something happened to me, and the only thing that got me through it was the thought of coming home, coming back to you and Torchwood. Then when I came back, it was too easy to fall back into the same old rhythm of you and me shagging, and so I did.” When Ianto attempts to protest: “Yes, I know; I told Gwen something very similar, and eventually, we will have to have a proper conversation about how me and her never was going to be a problem for us. She reminds me of someone I once loved, and I can’t help how much I miss her, but I could never love her, Ianto. We’re too similar.” He hesitates. “But I think that I could love you.”

That truth hangs in the strained silence between then. Finally: 

“That’s not entirely fair,” says Ianto. “That’s not entirely fair of you to say to me.”

“But it’s the truth,” says Jack. “I know, Ianto, I know there’s still a lot for me to make up for, but give me a chance. Let us try again, start over.” He gazes hopefully at Ianto, expression beautifully open and genuine.

“I don’t know.” Ianto sighs. “I don’t think it’s a good idea, setting myself to get my heart broken. Sorry, Jack.” He turns on his heel and walks away.

“Ianto,” Jack calls after him pleadingly, but Ianto doesn’t return.

* * *

After that, Jack and Ianto return to speaking terms, even if it’s stilted and very often just Jack giving Ianto orders and no less awkward than before. But also, after that, it doesn’t really matter, because after days of the Rift being quiet and hunting only the occasional stray Weevil, they suddenly find signs of a new Weevil nest across the city, and Torchwood is thrown into chaos.

They waste one day discussing ways to dispose of the Weevils until the general consensus becomes that they need to raid the nest themselves.

Based on suggestions by Owen and Tosh, they send in programmed drones leftover from Torchwood London - and isn’t that a blast from the past for Ianto? - to disperse anti-Weevil spray and a P’ran device that sends out bewildering telepathic blasts into the empty warehouse they’ve taken over. When most Weevils are taken care off, Owen and Gwen bagging and tagging them to be taken back to the Hub, Ianto, Jack, and Tosh wade inside to pick off the stragglers.

All is going well, Ianto grappling with a young Weevil before he manages to hit it in the face with some anti-Weevil spray, when he hears Jack roar in pain. Alarmed and concerned, Ianto whirls around, narrowly avoiding a stray Weevil claw and stunning the Weevil into submission, only to watch Jack be tackled to the ground. Jack yells in pain again, the sound turning Ianto’s stomach and making him feel physically ill; immediately, Ianto charges into the Weevil, knocking it off Jack, and stuns it before turning back to Jack.

The other man is slumped to the ground, greatcoat spattered with his guts, chest mangled into a bloody mess, and with a bloody gurgle and a few gasping breaths, Jack dies, the light fading from his eyes.

It feels like someone’s taken a battering ram to Ianto’s heart; rationally, he knows that Jack will come back to life with a startled gasp, but his treacherous heart won’t let him remember that. He drops to his knees beside Jack and lifts his body into his arms, cradling Jack’s head to his chest. Luckily, in the time that Ianto was distracted, Gwen, Owen, and Tosh took care of the rest of the Weevils, so they follow him to the SUV, Owen carrying the last of the rogue aliens.

Ianto slides into the back, next to Gwen, Tosh in the front with Owen, and pulls Jack close to him, uncaring of the blood. He breathes in the thick heavy copper scent, barely smelling the scent of Jack’s musky natural pheromones, faint tears trickling down his cheeks and into Jack’s hair. No one notices. 

It’s hard enough to hold onto his doubts and concerns when he’s holding onto the dead body of the man he could maybe love in his arms, which is why when Jack gasps back to life twenty minutes later as the SUV nears the Hub, his eyes flickering wildly about, Ianto gently strokes his bloody hair. “ _Shh_ , _shhh_ ,” he whispers to the panicking Jack, “it’s just me. You were killed by a Weevil. We took the nest down.”

Jack doesn’t reply, only burrowing his head into Ianto’s shoulder. 

When the SUV parks, Ianto helps Jack limp into the Hub and takes him to the bathroom in his bunker. He carefully strips Jack of his clothes, washing off some of the dried blood with a flannel before gently pushing Jack into the shower while he tries to figure out what to do with the greatcoat.

“Why are you doing this, Ianto?” Jack asks hoarsely when he wanders out with a white towel wrapped around his waist. 

“I forgive you,” Ianto tells him and watches confusion dance across Jack’s eyes, along with the slightest bit of hope. “We both fucked up, and obviously, we need to actually talk about it later, but for now, I forgive you. Let’s start afresh.”

Jack gapes at him, brow furrowing. “ _What_?”

Ianto rolls his eyes and surges forward, pressing a hand between Jack’s bare shoulder blades to pull him closer before capturing his mouth. In between demanding kisses, he murmurs against Jack’s lips, “I forgive you. Let’s try again; let’s have a redo of that date.”

“You’re amazing,” Jack says, eyes shining with awe as he beams before enthusiastically snogging Ianto back. He wraps a hand around Ianto’s waist. 

“One condition,” Ianto says, and before Jack’s joyous expression can falter: “You have to stop needlessly getting yourself killed.”

“What do you mean?” Jack’s expression is cautious, wary.

“I saw you today.” Ianto sighs. “You could have easily taken down that Weevil before it attacked you if you weren’t too busy watching Gwen’s back.” When Jack attempts to protest: “She’s a grown woman, a trained police officer, Jack. She’s fully capable and had it handled. For Christ’s sake, she’s taken on things worse than a couple of Weevils.”

“She’s mortal; she could die.” _So could you_ goes unsaid. 

“ _So can you_ ,” snaps Ianto. “Just because you come back doesn’t mean that each death isn’t traumatic. Just because you’ll live for much longer than we will doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt to see you die.” He inhales sharply. “Promise me you’ll try your hardest to keep yourself from dying.”

He’s tired of keeping Jack at arm’s length, tired of getting hurt, tired of watching Jack hurt and die, tired, just tired. Life as a Torchwood operative is too short for messy feelings and relationships; he should just embrace them.

“Ianto,” breathes Jack, and he presses a sweet kiss to the corner of Ianto’s mouth, nuzzling his nose against Ianto’s, “I promise.”

“ _Good_ ,” Ianto growls and _yanks_ Jack against him, devouring the other man’s mouth. The towel drops from between them, and Ianto reaches down to wrap a hand around Jack’s hard cock. “You’re already hard. Good.” He smirks into their kiss as Jack bucks his hips into his hand. 

“How could I not be?” Jack shoots back playfully. “You’re standing before me.”

“You have a smart mouth, Harkness,” Ianto tells him. “Maybe it’s time to show you where it belongs.” When he pushes on Jack’s shoulders, the other man drops willingly to his knees, unzipping Ianto’s trousers. Ianto’s smirk grows wider.

* * *

“Fuck me,” demands Jack, on his hands and his knees on his bed. He arches his back and tosses Ianto a coquettish look that almost tempts him to slam his _aching_ cock inside Jack, but he has more than enough self-control. He keeps his hands at Jack’s hips, clutching tightly enough to bruise the tan skin. “Fuck me fuck me fuck me. _Ianto, put your cock in me_ , _damnnit_!”

Ianto swats his cock slightly and hears Jack hiss. “Shush,” he says. “You might be the mouthiest partner I’ve ever had in bed.”

“You like my mouth,” Jack reminds him, smirking in an expression that’s all teeth. 

“I like your mouth silent,” Ianto retorts, and he leans forward to steal a quick kiss, gently rolling a thumb over Jack’s saliva-slick lips after their mouths part. “It’s more useful that way.”

The sight of Jack’s arse is obscene, all curved muscle and soft skin but with a perfect roundness that Ianto wants to sink his teeth into and marr. When Ianto pulls Jack’s cheeks apart, Jack sighing blissfully and shoving his arse into Ianto’s hands, he reveals the loose, pink furl of Jack’s hole as it winks back at him invitingly, dripping lube. He tries to imagine what Jack’s hole will look like fucked sloppy wide and leaking white ropes of Ianto’s release and realizes that he rather see it in real time. 

Quickly, he strokes his cock, twisting his grip slightly near the base, before positioning his head at Jack’s hole. Jack is wise enough not to say anything further and risk finding himself tied up with a vibrator shoved up his arse instead, which has happened before. Slowly, _agonizingly slowly_ , Ianto sinks inside, relishing that warm drag of Jack’s walls along his cock and the rhythmic fluttering of the muscle. When he’s fully seated inside Jack, gripped by an incredible tightness, he groans, low and deep in his throat.

“You’re a bloody sight to see, Jack Harkness,” he murmurs, but Jack is too distracted whining for Ianto to move, clenching down _hard_ around his cock. Ianto chuckles.

“Move, Ianto!” Jack growls, glancing back in frustration. “Move before I move for you.”

Rolling his eyes, Ianto pulls out partially and _slams_ back in, setting a swift, punishing rhythm. He grins, satisfied when he hears Jack’s yelp melt into noises of pleasure. Every time Ianto thrusts his hips forward, Jack shifts his hips back, meeting him in the middle, and for several long minutes, they fuck just like that, but Jack still hasn’t lost his cocky smirk. It’s beginning to irritate Ianto.

“You feel so good inside me,” Jack moans after one particularly hard thrust that has him throwing his head back. Ianto presumes he’s struck Jack’s prostate and angles his hips up every forward thrust after that, sparks building up his spine.

It’s hot and passionate, just like sex between Jack and Ianto always is, but it feels like there’s something missing. Ianto has a feeling he knows how to fix that. He leans forward and wraps an arm along Jack’s chest, pulling him against his chest until Jack is kneeling, his arse pressed against Ianto’s hips, leaving Jack completely impaled and helpless on Ianto’s cock. 

The change in angle causes Jack to whimper, nestling his head backwards against Ianto’s shoulder, and squirm until a firm hand on his chest and a murmured “ _Stop_ ” into his ear causes him to still.

“Good,” Ianto says softly, nosing along the sensitive skin of Jack’s outer ear and feeling the other man shiver. “Isn’t this better?”

“You’re a devious little shit, Jones, Ianto Jones,” Jack replies with a slightly hoarseness that makes Ianto smile proudly.

“As I said,” Ianto begins, a commanding edge to his voice, “I prefer your mouth silent.” Gently, but firmly, he pulls Jack’s jaw apart and shoves the fingers of the hand not holding Jack down inside the warm, wet cavern of his mouth. “ _Suck_.”

Jack makes a confused but aroused sound deep in his throat, which vibrates against Ianto’s skin, but he obeys. His hands come up to wrap securely around Ianto’s wrist, and his lips close around Ianto’s fingers as they had around Ianto’s cock not even an hour ago. He sucks lightly, gradually increasing the pressure and laving over the pads of Ianto’s fingers with his incredibly dexterous tongue, causing Ianto to moan quietly.

“See, Jack,” Ianto hisses into his ear and feels Jack’s flinch, “this is how you belong, trapped and writhing on my cock, with nowhere to go, with someone else in control of your body.”

The other man doesn’t respond and continues keeping his mouth happily preoccupied, unconsciously grinding down on Ianto’s cock. His hair tickles along Ianto’s bare shoulder with every flinch of his body. 

“That’s how it’s going to be from now on,” growls Ianto, and a savage upwards flex of his hips forces a muffled keen from Jack’s throat. “Your body is mine. Mine to use as I please. Mine to treat as I please. Which means no more dying.” He fucks Jack in a slow halting rhythm. “Is that understood, Jack?” He pulls his fingers from Jack’s mouth, and he whines in protest. 

“Yes, yes,” rasps Jack, sounding undone and pleasure-drunk as he turns his face towards Ianto’s neck. “I’m yours, Ianto. I promise.” He shudders. “I promise. No more dying, not if I can help it.” He inhales sharply. “ _I’m yours_.”

Those words prove to be Ianto’s undoing as the last of his self-control unravels. He gently turns Jack on his cock before pushing him flat on his back against the sheets and crawling over him. Jack gazes back with widened, glassy eyes and wraps his thighs around Ianto, pulling him closer.

“ _Fuck me_ , _Ianto_ ,” Jack whispers, and Ianto complies. 

The next few minutes are a haze as he thrusts rapidly into Jack, feeling the precipice of his orgasm approach. The world washes out white as he comes with Jack’s name on his lips, nearly doubling over with pleasure, breathing against Jack’s cheeks as they rest their foreheads together. Then Ianto reaches down for Jack’s cock, and it takes a few rough strokes before Jack is coming too, his release exploding over Ianto’s hands and against their stomachs. The name he calls is Ianto’s, loud enough to echo in the bunker and possibly even the Hub, and the way he looks reverently up at Ianto as he does so is almost enough to make Ianto harden again.

Afterwards, he grins boyish, blushing. “I really did a number on you, didn’t I?”

Jack, lounging against the pillows, ruffles Ianto’s hair affectionately. “I liked it.” A moment later, he hesitates. “Ianto, we’re going to be okay, right?”

Ianto closes his eyes, inhales softly, and nods. “Yeah, Jack, we’re going to be okay.”

* * *

In the end, despite Jack’s immortality, he isn’t perfect. Nor is Ianto. But they still try, still manage to make it work. 

They go out on that second date, well, technically, _first_ date, but this time, it’s just casual. They eat fish and chips out on the Plass. They watch the next James Bond movie from Ianto’s Bondathon in his flat but still end up snogging rather than paying attention to the movie. They end up shagging against the wall so loudly that the next morning Ianto’s neighbor knocks on the door to complain. Ianto still can’t look Catrin in the eye.

“So what?” Jack says, chuckling, one day when Ianto complains. He reaches over to swipe an olive off of the vegetable-loaded pizza he forced Ianto to order, and Ianto scowls.

“I used to look after her cat,” explains Ianto. “Catrin’s not going to ask me to look after Albert anymore now that she knows what I sound like when you fuck me.” He sighs. “Albert was the one cat I met who I could tolerate.”

Of course, they run into hitches in the road, like when Torchwood gets in the way of their life and Jack has to choose being the leader over being there for his lover. Or when their carefully-planned dates often just devolve into them having sex in every corner of the Hub. Or when both of their secrets just get in the way. Jack hopes that one day he will be able to tell Ianto about Alice and Steven and more of his long past. Ianto hopes that one day he’ll build up the courage to mention Jack to his sister or even - heaven forbid - introduce them, but he knows that that day is a long time ahead.

Life at Torchwood goes on. The team loses two days of their memories. Martha Jones comes for a visit, bringing some more ugly whispers of the Doctor to haunt Jack and Ianto. Owen dies, comes back to life, and acclimatizes to life as a fragile zombie. Gwen gets married. Ianto continues to lie to Jack about his father even when he finds out more about Jack’s past as a Torchwood operative. Yeah, life goes on.

When it’s not bad, when they’re not drowning in being Torchwood and saving the world, Ianto is actually the happiest he might have ever been so far in his twenty-something short years. Those days when Jack makes him laugh long enough that his chest hurts and smile widely will go into the precious, protected vault in Ianto’s mind, accompanied by dates with Lisa and other rare happy memories.

“You look happy,” Gwen tells him one day, stopping him while he places coffee on her desk, echoing her words to Tosh. “Love suits you.”

“It’s not love, Gwen,” he replies, laughing and blushing. “But it could be.” And he walks away, ignoring her loud excited squeal.

The next day, Owen nods at him after he enters the Hub to find Jack and Ianto whispering to each other, heads close. “You owe me a pint. I talked Harkness into grovelling.”

“Kindly get fucked, Dr. Harper,” Ianto says sweetly.

“That’s Jack’s job,” Owen calls after him.

Finally, Tosh corners him as he brews coffee one morning. “Does he make you happy?” she questions, eyes fixed on Jack in his office.

Ianto smiles. “Undoubtedly, yes.”

“Good.” Tosh takes her cup of coffee and presses a kiss to his cheek. “If he hurts you, I know how to erase his entire presence from the Internet. He would no longer exist.”

Ianto shivers. He thinks that sounds more frightening than a physical threat, and Jack agrees, scowling, when Ianto tells him later that night in bed.

“I’m their boss,” he says, though his tone is more playful than serious. “Don’t I deserve some respect?”

“Clearly, your team doesn’t believe so,” Ianto retorts, tracing lines along the planes of Jack’s stomach. 

“Aren’t they afraid that you’re going to hurt me instead?”

“Who, me?” Ianto forms his face into an innocent, boyish expression, and Jack’s scowl deepens, proving that Ianto’s baby face and youth still works to his advantage. Ianto thickens his accent. “I’m just a valley boy. I don’t know any better.”

Jack rolls his eyes. “That line never worked on me, Ianto Jones.” He leans in to steal a kiss, nuzzling his nose against Ianto’s as he pulls the other man closer.

“One day,” Ianto teases. “One day, it will work.”

* * *

Thousands of years in the future, a tall stranger looms over the simple weathered gravestone that reads _Ianto Jones, 1983-2009_ . _Loving brother, uncle, and friend_ . 

Jack Harkness snorts bitterly; he knows that Ianto’s sister Rhiannon picked the inscription, but it doesn’t stop him from rolling his eyes every time he visits Ianto’s grave.

“Long time no see,” he says to Ianto, but the gravestone doesn’t speak back. Jack sighs, then sinks down in the grass, leaning against the cold, cracked stone. “I’ve missed you. A lot has happened since I last saw you, Ianto.” 

Jack sits there for hours, sometimes in silence or sometimes filling the stale air of the cemetery with his ramblings, narrating stories of his past adventures and every extraordinary person he’s met. But of course, none have been as extraordinary as an ordinary Welshman with a love for coffee and suits.

As Jack gets up to leave, he stands and spares Ianto’s gravestone one last glance, heart twinging. It’s been _so long_ since Ianto died in his arms at Thames House and since he lost him one more time at the House of the Dead, but not one day goes by without a thought of Ianto. Jack isn’t necessarily grieving him anymore as much as he is just _missing_ him.

“It was never the Doctor,” he whispers to the last marker he has of Ianto Jones. “I loved the Doctor a long, long time ago, but it was never the Doctor, Ianto. It was always you.” A beat. “ _Ianto Jones_ , _the man who loved monsters_.” Jack wipes shaky tears from his eyes and smiles. “I loved you, Ianto Jones. I still love you.”

With that, Jack turns and walks away from Ianto Jones.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked that? I certainly had fun writing it! Either way, lemme know what you thought in the comments!
> 
> Find me on tumblr [here](http://princess-of-the-worlds.tumblr.com/) or on Twitter [here](https://twitter.com/rajkumarinik)


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